steps into a yard slippery with black mud and deeply
rutted by the wheels of heavy wagons. A double track with a row of
freight cars flanked the building opposite, and from these cars a group
of men were unloading bundles of skins and tossing them on the platform.
The men were dressed in faded jumpers and overalls and some of them wore
rubber aprons.

They glanced up an instant as Peter drew near.

"Carmachel," called the man who was showing the way, "this young fellow
is to help at unloading and later, the boss says, he is to watch you
fellows sort skins. He is a green lad and," added the messenger with a
grin of enjoyment at some joke that Peter did not at all comprehend,
"his name is Strong."

Carmachel, a grizzled Irishman, looked up--a twinkle in his eye.

"It's Strong he'll have to be if he is to work here," he answered with a
chuckle in which the others joined. "I say, young one," he continued
kindly, "you're not figuring on unloading skins in those clothes, are
you?"

"I was," replied Peter, nodding.

"Well, before you begin, you better have another think. It will be the
end of your glad rags. It's truth I'm tellin' you. Step inside the
doorway and wriggle yourself into those brown jeans you'll see hangin'
there."

Peter went in.

He took down the jeans from a peg behind the door. The clothes were
dirty, sticky with salt, and in them lingered a loathsome aroma of wet
hides. Instinctively he shrank from touching them. Then, gritting his
teeth, he put them on. This he did more out of appreciation for the
rough kindliness of the old Irishman than because he feared to injure
his clothes; his father would give him plenty more suits if that one was
spoiled.

When he went out on the platform Carmachel eyed him.

"That's more like it," he said. "Now get busy. We want to pull these
cars out of the yard by noon. Step lively."

Peter crossed the wet, slippery platform to the car where the other men
were working. The skins were folded neatly and tied with stout cord. He
lifted the bundle nearest at hand, then dropped it. It was solid,
sticky, and damp.

"They're wet!" he exclaimed.

"For certain they're wet!" roared the Irishman with a noisy guffaw.
"You're as green as the skins themselves--greener, for you are not even
salted."

The gang on the platform shouted at the joke.

Peter's anger rose, but he struggled to take their chaffing in good
part.

"You see, I don't know a thing about all this busine